


The Truth is Sexy

by DoreyG



Category: Glee
Genre: Because Rachel HAS to go to New York, Biting, Community: kink_bingo, Cunnilingus, Encouraged infidelity for a certain pairing, F/F, Fingering, Heavy on the Marking, Infidelity, Posession/Marking, Ridiculous insults, Sofa!Sex, Vague inspirational speeches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The love of your life is not somebody who holds you back or tries to change your dreams, the love of your life is somebody who makes you go after them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth is Sexy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Posession/Marking square on my Kink_Bingo. Was not supposed to contain any vague motivational speeches but then Glee went and gave me FEELINGS. Set about halfway through Saturday Night Glee-ver, the point at which I started frothing, though obviously goes AU from that. Brittana was also not supposed to feature so much but then they also decided to give me FEELINGS... And I think that's it?

“Hey, Julius Caesar.”

She holds back a smile at the… Term of endearment? Swings the door open and gestures politely in, “Hello, Santana, I must say that I wasn’t expecting any visitors today-“

…Santana doesn’t respond to the friendliness.

Only sways in, a touch arrogantly. Black ponytail held proudly high, hands in the pockets of her quite frankly _absurdly_ short Cheerios uniform, eyes taking in every inch of her house with a certain kind of fascination that is quite unwarranted considering the current level of their dubious friendship.

She still tries again, still polite and friendly because _that’s_ who she is, “Santana-“

“I heard that you were giving up on New York,” Santana interrupts casually, or mock casually since there’s no _way_ such a stomach punch isn’t deliberate, “are, instead, now planning on settling down with your Freakasaurus in some unspecified backwater and having roughly twelve terrifying mutant babies with him.”

There’s a long pause.

“I-“

“And you can’t,” Santana interrupts again, spinning around with a certain determined _look_ in her dark eyes (the kind of look that she’s seen in her own eyes… Until recently), “you’re meant for great things, Queen Schnoz, and if nobody else is going to tell you that popping out brat after brat is a great waste of your _humongous_ talent, something that I’m only able to admit due to that fabulous nose gag not even a sentence earlier, then the rather obvious task must fall to me.”

…She holds herself back from speaking again, for Santana would only interrupt and confuse her and be generally _unfair_. Stares down at her feet for a long moment as she thinks things through.

“We haven’t even talked about kids yet-“

“But you’ve gotten _engaged_ ,” and, as expected, Santana leaps in yet again – spreading her hands in her pockets and tilting her head like the point is absurdly clear, “and are planning to get married before the end of the school year. Which would be fine, I must say, if you were actually going to New York and following your dreams and thus being too busy for even _sex_ for a couple of years. But if you go to sunny California? Have to experience that lull before jobs that _all_ people do no matter how talented?”

She remains silent, almost sullen.

“Then, Berry, I can _assure_ you that he’ll have talked you into an unwanted pregnancy within two years or less. It’ll be all ‘you aren’t busy’ or ‘maybe you need something to do around the house all day’ and will eventually grow to ‘if you loved me you’d do it’ and before you know it your acting and singing and high kicking dreams will be in the dust and you’ll be juggling three screaming babies while going to endless parents’ evenings and convincing yourself that you _wanted_ to be on the PTA.”

She-

She _can’t_ remain silent, she fears that if she clenches her jaw any harder her teeth will pop out and rattle all over the floor, “when we decide to have kids it’ll be because both me and Finn want to-“

Santana, of _course_ , knows that she’s hit a nerve – it’s there in the arch of her eyebrow, “like both you and Finn want to move to California?”

“…Y-Yes,” and she _knows_ she’s parried a second too late.

“Liar,” Santana’s eyebrow only arches higher and higher, as she moves closer and closer until they’re standing practically nose to nose, “we’ve not always been friends, Dumbo… In fact I’d go as far as saying that we’ve _never_ been friends. But we’ve been in the same school since you could barely walk on your stumpy little legs – and even then you dreamed of going to New York and making something of yourself.”

She-

…She can’t deny it. For she _has_ always dreamed of making something of herself. _Has_ always dreamed of dragging herself out of this one star town where there are only hicks and gawkers and people who think it’s subtle when they giggle behind their hands and making it somewhere _big_.

“Dreams change,” and so she can only manage that, weak sounding to even her own ears.

“Sometimes, yeah,” Santana gives, shrugging her shoulders with an expression like she’s just watched _every single one_ of those thoughts dance across her face, “but they shouldn’t change because of other people. Finn may be sweet, dubiously sweet, but he’s not a guy to give up your whole glittering life for.”

And, again-

…She can only manage a gulp, a weak thing as she _tries_ to dig her nails into her palms in a desperate and clinging way, “he’s the love of my life-“

“Rachel…” It’s the first time she’s ever heard Santana use her name, it’s a shock so hard that she stands still even as a hand passes carefully up her arm and onto her shoulder, “the love of your life is not somebody who holds you back or tries to change your dreams, the love of your life is somebody who makes you go after them.”

“You-“

She-

She…

“The moment he started pressuring you into things that you don’t want at all he stopped being the love of your life,” Santana’s voice is oddly gentle, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t mean that,” _she_ can only choke, press a hand to her eyes to _swipe_ away the tears already gathering there (the tears already gathering there because of the _truth_ \- because she knows, has always known deep down, that her and Finn’s lives are helplessly destined to part the moment she throws her graduation cap in the air and gets on that inevitable bus to New York), “you’re just jealous. Jealous of our true love-“

“ _Jealous_?” That, at least, gets a bark of laughter from Santana – which is somehow better than that odd sympathy, that actual sincerity _still_ like a punch in the gut, “I may be jealous of something, Dumbberry, but it’s certainly not your blatantly senseless ‘true love.’”

“What, because you already have true love?” She finds herself snapping… Finds, with a touch of surprise, her nails properly _scratching_ into her palms, “a true and _sincere_ love that’ll last longer than the stupidly foolish thing between me and Finn?”

“Perhaps-“

“Because if you think that, Santana, you are an _idiot_ ,” and suddenly she can’t help herself from _snarling_ , tears running down her face (and she’s not sure when they started, but she just knows that they’ll _never_ stop), “your relationship with Brittany will last just as long as my relationship with Finn-“

“Don’t-“

“-And you _know_ that!”

“I know nothing at all, you freak, and I don’t have to admit it!” And now, at least (at _least_ ), Santana is yelling too – her beautiful face starting to go red, her eyes starting to glisten with proper anger at _last_ , “Brittany and I may break up briefly, yes, but we’re flexible. We’ll _always_ come back to each other no matter what.”

“Even when you go to university?” She challenges bravely, for if Santana knows her to be destined for New York then she damn well knows that Santana is destined for a career in business or law or _anything_ that’ll take her out of this quite frank _hellhole_ , “even when you start flirting with other girls? Sleeping with other girls? _Loving_ other girls while she sits alone in Lima and hopes desperately that you’ll come back?”

“We’re _flexible_!” Santana only _roars_.

“ _That_ flexible?” And she only _screeches_ in return.

“ _Yes_!” Holds back a sniffle, as Santana draws herself up with flashing eyes and a determined jaw, “yes. She wants me to be happy, and I want her to be happy and what happens when I go to university and then off to see the world has already been worked out between us. _Talked_ out _together_ \- because that’s what proper couples do: they listen to each other, they talk to each other, they support each others’ dreams and try their very hardest to make them work.”

…It sounds perfect.

It sounds, no matter how hard they’ve (she’s, she thinks too often for it to just be normal teenage sulkiness) tried, nothing like what she has with Finn, “she-she’ll be alright if one day you find yourself liking another girl?”

“She’ll be _more_ than alright, as long as she gets to watch occasionally,” a small smile flickers across Santana’s face, an honestly _fond_ one, before she looks at her again… And all mirth is helplessly lost, “ _is_ more than alright, actually.”

It takes a second for her blindsided brain to catch up, she considers it a justified one, “you like somebody right now?”

…And there is a long and _very_ unexpected pause.

“Wow, Nelly the Elephant, your rebound times are the stuff of myth and legend,” before Santana turns on her heel suddenly, as if she’s _hiding_ something. Stomps off towards the door like its some gateway to heaven instead of some fairly ordinary black thing that’s been there since she was ten and a rather clumsy neighbour accidentally put a tennis ball through the old one, “anyhow, I’ve done enough good deeds today. I’m off to smoke cigars and flick them at confused old people – see ya!”

It’s pure instinct that has her hurrying after Santana, throwing herself between hand and door as fast as humanly possible, “ _Who_ do you like?”

And it’s probably fantasy, almost _definitely_ fantasy since she’s getting much better at recognizing those now, but the brief flicker of panic across Santana’s face is something to be fascinated by, “Holding me hostage in your house now? I always knew you were sick, Stalkerberry, but this really takes the-“

“Is it Quinn?” She suppose it takes all the way up to Obama’s wedding cake, _yes_ , but she has the firm feeling that this is somehow important (and she’s starting to remember how to chase her feelings, she thinks, slowly and on pins and needles but definitely _starting_ ), “Or Tina? I know she’s in a relationship but she’s very, very pretty and kind and-“

“It’s _neither_ , Berry,” ah, and that’s _definitely_ panic in Santana’s voice now – so this is _definitely_ important, “stop being a freak and let me-“

“Then who is it, then?”

“Nobody, get out-“

“ _Who_?”

“ _Nobody_!”

“Santana, _who_ do you-?”

“Oh, for fuck’s _sake_ ,” and suddenly, and she _knew_ it was important even if it definitely does make her head dizzy, Santana’s lips are covering hers – and everything else is lost in a slide of tongues and teeth.

…They part only after a while, and then only for air. Santana’s eyelashes are impossibly dark against her face, she breathes to herself for a long moment before leaning in again – pressing in underneath the line of her jaw now, scraping teeth along her neck in a way that makes her shudder and tilt her head _right_ back.

“Finn…” Managing only that as she does so. _Just_ that. Although the man, the boy really despite his big shoulders and the way he towers above every single one of their teachers, is already fading steadily away in her mind-

And Santana’s teeth _bite_ into her neck. Hard and possessive and drawing a _gasp_.

“Sorry” …She draws back the second afterwards, of course. Actually lets go and _apologizes_ like she feels she’s done something wrong (for once, and Santana really _would_ only feel guilty after something that deserves no apologies at all), “I didn’t mean to, Freakyberry, I’ll just let myself out now if you’ll helpfully move aside-“

She doesn’t.

“Yes, please do!” Stands her ground instead – tilts her head right up and gives her most beaming grin, the one that she was _always_ flashing two years ago when her dreams were a lot firmer than they seem now, “please leave so I can call Finn and we can have wonderfully oblivious sex.”

And Santana’s eyes take on that possessive glitter for another blissful moment-

“There’s no need to rub it in, Pinocchio,” but then she only snaps, like an _idiot_ (if she’s going to be perfectly honest, since she’s apparently only delusional around Finn), “and no need to make me climb out of the window while you’re at it. I mean: I don’t blame you for wanting to humiliate me, but to go _that_ far-“

She feels a bit like banging her head against the wall.

She _doesn’t_ , yet again - only sighs instead, decides to try a different tactic, “it is rubbing it in, then? Making you jealous? Making you a touch _possessive_?”

Oh, and there’s a _pause_ this time-

“God, you really _are_ intent on humiliating me utterly,” a fruitless pause, ending in Santana sending her an angry and helpless look that does _not_ look likely to lead to any more of that entirely pleasurable biting, “You know, I never took you for _cruel_ , no matter how much of a hobbit you were-“

“I’m _not_ cruel!” And, _okay_ , perhaps a better tactic yet is needed. She grumbles to herself, steps away from the door – but, as she’s stepping, firmly takes Santana’s slightly fisted hand. Drags the woman with her until she’s back to facing the well proportioned lounge area, “I’m just… Inventive.”

…That, at least, _finally_ gets her a thoughtful glance, “inventive in letting me out the door?”

“No,” it’s now or never. She sighs again, leans up until she can drag Santana into another kiss – shorter this time, _harder_ with their teeth clashing and her fingers sliding into that ever so dark hair “…Inventive in being _fond_ of a little possessiveness.”

They stare at each other for a long second, from a near distance.

“I wish you’d stop showing hidden depths, _Berry_ ,” and Santana laughs, and _crushes_ their lips back together.

They somehow end up stumbling to the sofa, tangled and tripping and _tearing_ at each other in a savage way that they’re helpless (don’t _want_ ) to stop. Somehow she loses her shirt along the way (has it ripped over her head), _somehow_ Santana loses her sweater and is shucked halfway out of her uniform (greedy, grasping hands frantically tugging wherever they can reach) by the time they reach the cushions.

The backs of her knees hit first, she goes sprawling down with a desperate gasp for air. Barely getting the time to (not at all) enjoy the respite before-

_Ah_.

Santana is pleasantly heavier than she looks, she supposes it’s all the muscle. She hums under her breath as they trade another deep kiss, _gasps_ as it’s suddenly broken – Santana sliding practically naked (that underwear, that blessed underwear, covering _nothing at all_ ) down her body until she can sink-

She squeaks a swear word under her breath, ignores the chuckle.

- _Sink_ those teeth back into her throat. Nibbling just below the line of her jaw before continuing steadily _down_ \- gnawing possessively at her throat, leaving a probably _purpling_ bruise at her collarbone, going further and further and _further_ …

The arch up to remove her bra is easy enough, practically _necessary_ considering the buzzing all through her. And the hot suction of Santana’s mouth around her nipple is _perfect_ , making her buck up again even as sharp nails dig into her far too covered hips.

Santana draws back, mouth gloriously wet, “skirt-“

And she doesn’t need telling twice. The skirt is soon shucked over her hips, thrown casually to the floor. Her tights, and underwear, follow a second afterwards – leaving her completely bare and sprawled happily beneath Santana.

…Hey, it’s always best to be _thorough_.

Especially with that look in Santana’s eyes, that certain _covetousness_ in her gaze as she takes the eager opportunity to scrape firm nails over bare flesh – watches the gasping reaction with actual _joy_.

“Please…”

It only takes a moment, after the _plea_ , for her to keep moving – ever downwards with a purpose that is dizzying to be around. Santana marks her every step of the way – a sharp nip to the underside of her breast, a scrape of steady nails down her sides, a trail of biting kisses right down her stomach-

Until-

_Until_ -

Santana’s breath is hot as she settles right between her legs, her expression downright _wicked_ as she looks up with a curving smirk. She takes the opportunity, so many are being readily presented today, to lean in – to bite at her hip until she _swears_ she can already see garish shades of purple and yellow and other such vivid things spiralling out…

And then _leans in_.

And- Fuck.

_Fuck_.

Santana’s mouth is hot and perfect, her nails digging into her thighs like she _never_ wants to let go. She whines, whimpers, _howls_ \- tries to buck-

But Santana holds her steady.

And she has never, _never_ , been so glad for that as the woman properly leans in. Works her with short, sharp licks – almost _teasing_ things that have her spreading her legs wider and attempting to lift her hips and generally _begging_ for it in a way that’s absolutely impossible to restrain.

Not, of course, that _that_ lasts for long. The moment she’s spread her legs as wide as they can go on a reasonably sized sofa, started feeling the world go white and dazed around her in a way that it _never_ does with Finn, Santana draws back a little. Gusts a breath between her aching thighs, laughs at her choked cry and desperate grab.

“Patience,” _speaks_ , though it takes her a while to work out that they’re actual _words_ instead of a helpless jumble that she can only blink and gawp and _tut_ at, “honestly, Berry, have you never been taught _patience_?”

She considers that for a second.

“It’s very hard to be patient,” sniffs primly, raising herself up on shaking elbows, “when you’re naked and a very attractive, if slightly infuriating, woman is between your legs.”

_Santana_ considers that for a second.

“Fair enough,” _laughs_ again, and then gets back to… Well, she _hopes_ work isn’t the correct word for it. Not with that ferocity. Not with that concentration. Not with that sheer _joy_ that Santana displays as she nuzzles in yet again.

For the pace is _ferocious_ , making her eyes snap (briefly) shut and her fingers dig into the cushions and her entire body _shake_ at the waves of pleasure trembling through – Santana licks like she was _born_ to do it, hard and fast and making little rumbling noises that half seem encouragements to _explode_.

And the skill involved is _concentrated_ , sharp licks alternating with soft licks and short nuzzles alternating with long nuzzles and quick draws back to possessively nip alternating with long draws back to properly _bite_ \- keeping her constantly on her toes (in a manner of speaking) until she’s not sure which way is up or down or whether she’s even _human_ anymore.

And the joy-

The _joy_ -

For Santana really does lick like she was born to do it. And rumbles like she loves what she was born to do. And adds one sneaky finger like she _knows_ what she was born to. And- and- _and_.

She never knew that coming could be a transcendent experience, one white and floaty and possibly with peaceful harps twanging in her ears, but at least she knows now – as she comes down several seconds (minutes (hours ( _years_ ))) later to find her hand fisted in dark hair and Santana staring lazily up at her with such wet lips.

…Pleased wet lips, she hopes.

“Did you-?” Has to ask politely anyway, raising herself back onto her elbows and somehow finding herself _comfortable_ in her nudity (and that’s new too. No hurry to cover herself up, no mutual awkwardness because they didn’t _quite_ fit together right and were both trying to cover it).

“What do you think?” Santana, at least, answers honestly – with a sharply clear arch of her eyebrow that gets through even in this blissful state, “you may be a pleasure, Rach- Gayberry, but you’re not _that_ much of one.”

…They’re both doing a lot of staring today.

“Well,” and she’s doing a _lot_ of being prim, as she flips them over with little effort and settles herself down between Santana’s legs – taking in the soft gasp with _some_ pleasure as she helps to drag the rest of that (still ridiculously short) uniform off, “ _that’s_ easily fixed.”

“Is it?”

“If you’ll just hush and let me show my _numerous_ talents I’m sure you’ll agree,” she smiles superiorly, and shifts her hand up and _in_.

Santana, despite her spikiness, is obviously only a _little_ behind her. She’s wet and slick and _ready_ and when she twists one of her fingers goes in right up to the knuckle. She watches in a fascinated way for a second, takes Santana’s half-babbled curse as instruction and starts to move again – drawing that finger back and dredging everything she’s learned over the years _right_ up to the surface.

It isn’t so much the penetration as the stimulation: she settles herself properly between Santana’s legs, starts a slow rubbing motion that soon has the woman bucking and whining and trying to grab onto her arm to _guide_ things.

Tease the outside first: she shrugs off that hand, blindly grabbing as it is, easily. Shifts her fingers slowly down until she finds Santana’s opening – rubs _there_ , slow and steady and focused, until she can hear her name panted and whined and actually _gasped_ above.

And she-

Gently thrust your fingers in, a little at a time: she smiles, slowly turns her hand again until she can slip one finger in – doesn’t let it get all the way to the knuckle this time (at least not _yet_ ) but instead gently starts thrusting it. Balancing herself so that she’s in the perfect position to see the desperate heave of Santana’s chest.

Focus on other areas: and she does, she _does_ for two can play at the wonderfully possessive game. She leans in – lathers Santana’s neck and chest with kisses and bites and nips until one of them _will_ leave a mark, a red and clear thing that’ll have to be covered up and lied about and maybe happily touched at night when nobody else is around to see.

And-

_And_ -

When you’ve got as deep as you can _crook_ your finger: and she does.

And watching Santana, sharp and sarcastic and always _put together_ Santana, come apart around her is _fantastic_. That buck of her hips and arch and _scream_ enough to assure her that she wants little else for the rest of her hopefully long life.

She draws her finger out.

They slump together by mutual and silent agreement, her head coming down on Santana’s chest and Santana’s hands _maybe_ winding through her hair. It occurs to her to feel guilty about Finn, but-

“Are you _sure_ Brittany is going to be okay with this?” She asks instead, pressing an absent kiss to one of the marks on Santana’s breast – it’s fading slower than the rest, she thinks it might still show tomorrow.

“What? Oh, yeah, _duh_ ,” and she’d feel strange about that (she _wouldn’t_ ), but Santana is absently trailing fingers across her collarbone in much the same faintly proud way, “are you going to go to New York?”

…And she smiles. Bitten and blissful and so very wonderfully _claimed_ , “of course. Why would I ever want to be elsewhere?”


End file.
